


Within These Gates All Opening Begins

by celestialskiff



Category: Literary RPF
Genre: 1930s, Casual Sex, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The blackbird looked as out-of-place here as he felt: an English garden bird in this street. But it moved easily, like it belonged. </i> Wystan and Christopher explore Berlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within These Gates All Opening Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on two real people. It does not pretend to be accurate portrayal of them.

The first thing Wystan said to him when he met him off the train was, “Boiled owl.” 

Christopher laughed, and felt at once that everything would be all right. The women standing in front of them did have just the look, the heavy breasts stretching almost to their waists, which Wystan had once compared to a couple of boiled owls on a platter, a rather tortured comparison that never failed to make both of them laugh. 

Wystan lit two cigarettes and passed one to Christopher. It was very loud in the Berlin station, and Christopher ached rather from his hours on the train. They walked close, smoking, barely talking, Wystan leading the way. Of course, he had to lead the way as he was the only one who knew where they were going, but it still made Christopher feel awkward because always, before, he had been the one to lead them. 

They sat, side by side, in Wystan's narrow room, on his bed. There wasn't space for chairs, there was just the bed with its strange, short, German covers, a packing-case with an ashtray on it, and a stack of books on the floor between the bed and the case. 

“I'll have to find a room soon,” Christopher said. 

“You can stay as long as you like,” Wystan replied, but Christopher didn't think he could stand more than one or two nights pressed up next to Wystan like a slice of ham in a paper packet, listening to the sounds he made in his sleep, staring up at the yellowed ceiling. 

When he didn't respond, Wystan said, “I missed you,” and reached over to Christopher and put his hand on Christopher's hip. It felt like always: small, stumpy, eager. He was tired after the journey, but not too tired for this. He rolled onto his back on the bed covers, and a familiar smell of smoke and sweat wafted out of them. Wystan climbed over Christopher's thighs, his trousers wrinkled, his behind pressing heavily against Christopher's knees. 

“You look tired,” Wystan said. 

Christopher said, “You look awful, as always. Your eyes look smaller than ever. They're like a shrew's eyes in a man's face. Except pale, of course.” 

Wystan laughed. “Qualified similes are no good,” he said, and undid Christopher's belt. He pulled the white shirt free from the waistband, rolling the cloth between his fingers. Christopher worried his lip between his teeth. There was no one with whom he was more intimate than he was with Wystan, yet even with Wystan there were words he couldn't quite form. 

He wasn't aroused, but he could become so, and Wystan's hands, on his hips and thighs, were warm, the touch familiar and delicate. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of smoke and ash, and the unfamiliar Berlin street smells: rye and red cabbage and something he couldn't name. Wystan's hand moved to his crotch, and he bucked his hips up against it. 

*

Afterwards, Wystan lay on his side, breathing slowly, not quite asleep but on his way to sleep. When Christopher got up, Wystan sighed and stirred. 

“You might as well sleep,” Christopher said. 

“I don't want you to be bored.” 

“I'm going out for a walk.” 

“Not on your own.” 

“Yes, on my own. You know I like to walk by myself.”

“You don't know the way.” 

“If I get lost I'll find one of those lovely boys you described, the blond boys, muscular from all the honest work they do, not a bit like us, and he'll smell like wood-shavings and beer, and I'll tell him I'm lost and give myself over to his mercy.” 

“Well, since you so obviously know what you're doing,” Wystan said, but then, as Christopher began to get dressed, “Are you sure you wouldn't rather I came?” 

He was sure. He went out, down the dim staircase, into his new city. It was much warmer here than at home, and the air was mustier, closer. He'd thought at first that Wystan's room was in a particularly run-down part of Berlin, but the further he progressed through the streets, the more squalid they became. The buildings were old ones, many of them finely proportioned and well made, but they had a dilapidation that suggested poverty. When he looked up, he saw little in the way of sky, only over-hanging roofs. What sky was visible was very grey and heavy. Clothes hung from some windows, bunched and tangled, and refuse was underfoot. 

He felt profoundly alone, suddenly, and remembered the garden at home, the sweep of the lawn, and the smell of the trees in spring. As he remembered it, he reminded himself how trapped he felt there, and how he longed, when he was there, to be anywhere else. He turned down another street: the buildings here were smaller, though their façade was, or had been at one time, rather grand. 

A bird moved with a familiar hop from one door-frame to another. He didn't break his stride, but looked up at the blackbird, its dark, beady eyes and bright beak. It fluttered further from him as he walked up the street, fanning its tail feathers. It looked as out-of-place here as he felt: an English garden bird in this street. But it moved easily, like it belonged. 

A straight-forward metaphor. He wished he could tell Wystan, to make up for his shrew comparison from earlier. Wystan liked metaphors—it was something to do with being a poet. Christopher preferred straight-forward prose, detailing what he saw around him. Wystan was always sending him poems layered with metaphors and comparisons, and Christopher crossed out all the lines he didn't like until Wystan was almost left with nothing. 

He wondered if Wystan would ever rebel, object to his verse being pared down so, but so far Wystan had always agreed with him, tiredly, but certain that Christopher knew best. Christopher didn't know best: Christopher didn't think he knew anything at all, but Wystan hadn't figured that out yet. 

*

“We could stay in,” Wystan said. “Honestly, you must be tired.” 

Wystan had been writing: the ink was very obvious in its bottle by the bed, and the floor was littered with scraps of paper. Wystan always seemed to keep his scraps for ages: Christopher even recognised one on blue blotting paper from the last time he'd seen him, the lines written on it unaltered. Christopher could never be bothered to keep up such a collection. He wondered if Wystan wanted him to read what he'd written, but he didn't offer. Now was not the moment to take Wystan's verse seriously, and he would only look at it if Wystan demanded it.

He'd found his way back with reasonable ease, and that small triumph had left him eager to explore further. 

“I'm hungry, and I'm excited. I'm not half as lazy as you, you know, I don't go right to sleep just because my prick's been sated.”

“We'll get something to eat, then,” Wystan said. “And I'll take you to a club I found.” 

They ate a rather odd thick sausage meat called leberkäse, the ingredients of which Christopher was glad he didn't know. “Is all German food this beastly?” he asked. 

“No; and anyway, other things make up for it,” Wystan said. He was shovelling crisp friend onions into his mouth along with rough, dark bread. Wystan was always thin without trying very hard—it was terribly unfair. 

The pub was very dark, and the inside was arranged quite unlike an English pub. The cloud of cigarette smoke was familiar, but Christopher fancied it smelt slightly different from how it would at home. He nibbled at the meat, unable to eat it with the same enthusiasm as Wystan. The bitter taste went some way to blunt his hunger. 

They seemed to sit for an interminable time, Wystan telling him this and that about his stay in Berlin, much of which he'd already recounted in letters. Receiving those letters, when lonely and feeling friendless, had been hugely appreciated, but now that he was here he found the retelling tedious. But Wystan, as ever, looked terribly eager, and he tried to keep him satisfied. 

Outside at last, Wystan led a complicated path through back-streets until they reached an area rich with clubs and pubs. Through it was dark here and as run-down as much else in Berlin, the entrances were lit enticingly and music came from some doorways. Wystan led them to an especially dim doorway, muffled music coming from within. 

Inside, Wystan looked shy, twisting his hands in front of himself. Wystan was always awkward on these occasions, no matter how often Christopher had tried to encourage him. Christopher had given up trying that now, and looking around, he decided that he'd to make his own way here. 

The men were not quite as good looking as in his imagination, but they were solid and smelt like sweat and unwashed hair and, underneath those things, like sandalwood and smoke and juniper and all the other scents that made up that wonderful, male musk. He bought a drink, a spirit, better than the insipid beer they'd had at the pub, and then bought another. Wystan looked like he might take it, but Christopher gave it to a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man who looked thoughtful and interested and whose hair curled pleasingly around well-shaped, flat ears. 

He looked nothing at all like Wystan, and he didn't look a bit English, and Christopher thought he would be a refreshing change. 

They barely spoke a word of each other's language, but they managed a few sentences of faltering French before reaching a point at which they understood each other well enough not to need words. 

Wystan was still close-by, watching him, as if he expected to be included in the upcoming events. Christopher thought that he'd look for a room tomorrow, because it would be so much easier if there were somewhere he could bring this boy. He didn't like the look on Wystan's face—even if his feelings were hurt, it was unkind of him to make it so obvious. And besides, Wystan didn't really look all that bad, either: he could certainly find someone if he put his mind to it. 

With that in mind, he found a quiet spot where he could put his hands on the man. There were others around them engaged in similar activities, and it was pleasant to hear the echoing sounds of others experiencing pleasure. It made the whole thing seem like a delightful game, at which they were all doing very well. 

*

“Did he tell you his name?” Wystan asked. 

“No, and I didn't tell him mine.” 

“You won't be able to find him again.” 

“That doesn't matter; there are plenty more to chose from.” 

Wystan turned his face from him, fiddling with a cigarette. He was holding a match as if he couldn't get it to light, although Christopher didn't think that could be the case. “Doesn't it bother you?” Wystan said. “Doesn't it bother you, how alone we are?”

“Must you take everything so seriously?” Christopher said. There was an edge of anger in his voice. “We're here to have fun, aren't we?” 

“Are we? Is it fun?”

“If you don't think it's fun, I don't know why you're here.” The street was dark, and Christopher couldn't tell if they were nearly at Wystan's room or would have to wander for many more long hours. He felt a little drunk, and his thighs were unpleasantly sticky. He stopped walking, turning to put his hands on Wystan's shoulders, feeling the narrowness of the bones, the fragility of the familiar body. Wystan caught a breath, surprised. Their friendship had always been intimate and easy, but at moments like this Christopher thought he didn't understand Wystan at all. 

“I suppose I... I suppose I don't know what else to do.” The _else_ was long, a whine in the syllable. For a second, Christopher had a horrible feeling that Wystan might start to cry. 

“Aren't you lucky? Think of me, all alone in bloody Cheshire for months. Aren't you glad you were here instead?”

“I was lonely too.” 

“You didn't have to be. Why do you have to be so miserable? I'm here, now. Think of what we can do.” 

“Yes.” Wystan pushed him off, standing straighter. “Yes; I'm sorry, Chris, you're right. I don't mean to be miserable.” 

“It's all right. It's the way you are, isn't it, Stumpy?” Christopher said, cuffing his shoulder affectionately. 

“Seems to be,” Wystan said, and then smiled faintly. “I always do cheer up, though: get that through your enormous, squat head, won't you?” 

* 

As he'd suspected, tired though he was, he struggled to sleep in the narrow bed next to Wystan. He hadn't drunk enough. He could hear the man's breath, slow and even, and outside there were noises in the street: people walking, rattling wheels. From the train, in the countryside, he had seen a full moon, but this room was so closed-in that he could make out nothing of the sky through the window. 

Still, the world seemed huge to him suddenly, vast, and full of things he so desperately wanted to explore. He would get a room. He would meet boys—so many boys, and bring them home, and learn about their bodies and the sounds they would make. He would begin to write, finally begin to write something really good, something that would really sell, something that would change their view of him at home and all over the world. 

He smiled. He was still drunk. Everything was going to be wonderful. Everything was about to begin. 

Wystan wheezed and woke next to him. He looked down at the crinkled face in the dim light, trying to be fond on the narrow jaw and pallid eyes. They were familiar, but Christopher knew familiarity didn't always lead to fondness. 

Still, he could find a room tomorrow. And he would still see Wystan and read his verses, he would see him often, and they would relearn this friendship on which they had always so relied. 

Wystan, voice dulled by sleep, said, “I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad.”


End file.
